This post is a bit different from what I typically share. Originally written in June 2022, it was my way of processing the loss of my grandmother, who passed away peacefully in her sleep. She was a woman I admired deeply, and as I prepare to delete my Facebook account, I wanted to preserve this piece—a memory of her and the impact she had on my life.
Moving it here feels fitting. It’s a way to honor her while leaving behind the noise of social media. If you take the time to read, I hope you find something here that resonates—a small moment or lesson that brings a bit of light, as she often did.
First, however, we’ll begin with some recommended listening, as we always do.
My family can tell you I don’t remember much of my childhood before middle school. I have no clue why; I’ve had no major injuries, and no other circumstance with which to explain the gap. Still, there are a few things that I remember more clearly than others in the vast span of days and weeks in those early years. Rarely is there any logic or continuity, or seemingly any rhyme or reason in how the ones that I’ve kept were chosen, but I do remember them well.
I remember afternoons in early summer, riding south in the camper-covered bed of a white Toyota pickup with my best friend and a box of cereal, setting out on an adventure with my grandmother to spend a summer with her on that vast plot of Georgia woods. I remember the lack of air conditioning and the heat at night, thick and damp in the southern summer, and the winter nights watching TV and competing over who gets to lay closest to the wood burning stove that somehow became the core of the living room, second only to the oversized round kitchen table.
I also remember the fights we had when I was sure I knew best, but everyone else was convinced I had done something childish or idiotic (George, I don’t know if you’ll ever see this, but I do apologize for the waste of good lumber on building a dam across the creek, and possibly affecting the neighbor’s irrigation, just so that we could build a tree fort with a deeper swimming pond). In retrospect, they were usually right. We argued terribly at times, but my grandmother always tried to guide me into making the right choice, and being a man who made the world a better place for his family and the people around him.
She taught me to love to read, or maybe just casually lucked into titles I liked during our weekend bargain shopping runs at goodwill, but after we found a new series we both loved, she was an amazing person to talk to about the characters, magic, and tragedy laid out in the pages. She also taught me to own up to my own mistakes, and that they weren’t always as bad as they seemed as long as you clean up your own mess, but sometimes you can’t take it back. There’s probably still a cast iron pan in those cabinets that hasn’t seen the stove since I washed it (with soap and a scrubber) and ruined the seasoning.
But among the most valuable things she taught me was that “good” isn’t always clean and pretty. It can’t be drawn out and put into simple terms or clean lines. It can smell like rust, reminiscent of a morning’s work unloading scrap metal. It can come in the door covered in dirt and grass stains, soaked from head to toe with creek water, and still be the most fun you’ve ever had. It can be a morning that you know is going to be good just because you woke up smelling sausage and buttermilk biscuits. It can even be as simple as choosing to keep a massive round dining table just because there’s always room for one more friend to drop in.
I may not have learned all this the way she would have liked, but I like to think she’s proud of what I’ve done with her lessons so far.
So yes, the world is a little less colorful today, because it has lost one of the people that helped make it so amazing. When I spoke to her on Thursday, I knew it wouldn’t be long before left us, but I knew she was gone when I woke up at 0530 this morning, 1500 miles away. She didn’t want a service or ceremony, but I couldn’t let her go without finding some way to honor her memory and some of the ways she changed my life for the better. She also knows I’ve always been one to follow instructions in my own way, so I guess she’ll just have to take it up with me if we meet again.
We love you, Nini, and wish you a smooth journey on to your next adventure. You will be missed.
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